


Bones don't lie

by thedaughterofkings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Bones (TV Series), Case Fic, Crossover, FBI Agent Derek, M/M, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, forensic anthropologist Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 17:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14290104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedaughterofkings/pseuds/thedaughterofkings
Summary: When a case opens up wounds from Stiles' past, he has to reconsider his firmest belief - the bones don't lie. But with visitors from the past, threats in the present, and a handsome FBI agent in the midst of it all, Stiles has more on his plate than just a mysterious murder.





	Bones don't lie

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of the Sterek Glompfest for tx-toast, who asked for a Bones AU. I hope you'll enjoy my take on your prompt!
> 
> The fic should make sense for those who don't know the TV show Bones, too, you'll probably just miss a few references to Bones Canon, but that shouldn't be a problem.
> 
> I don't have any forensic background whatsoever, so there's a lot of handwaving going on in this fic - please don't take this as a realistic representation of how an FBI investigation works! (If you do have a forensic background and want to help me improve my science, please feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](http://thedaughterofkings.tumblr.com/)!)
> 
> Lastly, I owe much thanks to Larissa and Krista who beta-read this fic for me - any remaining mess is entirely my fault!

When the call wakes Stiles before six in the morning, he's tempted to just throw his phone across the room instead of picking it up. Their  _ abuela _ had celebrated her 80th birthday last night and the Delgado’s sure knew how to party. But it's the ringtone he set for work - the very appropriate masterpiece by Randy Travis “Diggin’ up bones", even if it makes Morrell shake her head at him disapprovingly - so he answers the call with a grunt. There's no way Morrell can know he still hasn't changed his ringtone to something more along her ideas of appropriate, but she nevertheless sounds somewhat disapproving as she says:

 

“Mr Stilinski, your presence is required in the lab. A body has been found and the FBI want an identification and the cause of death.”

 

“Has the body been moved yet?” Stiles interjects quickly and Morrell noticeably hesitates before replying: “Not as far as I know, but really, Mr Stilinski -"

 

“Where is it?” Stiles interrupts her. “Never mind, I'll just call Hale.”

 

And then he quickly hangs up before she can tell him no. Stiles isn't going to give up a chance to do field work, even if it means hanging up on his boss. She'll forgive him. 

 

Eventually. 

 

~*~

 

“Stilinski, what are you doing here?”

 

Agent Derek Hale has been the Jeffersonian’s FBI liaison for several years, so he really should know better than asking stupid questions by now. Which Stiles doesn't hesitate to tell him of course. 

 

“My job,” he snarks, his hangover making his voice sharper than intended, and pushes past Hale to where the caution tape is fluttering in the morning breeze. Hale catches up with him in a few large strides and even holds up the tape to allow Stiles to pass underneath it. Stiles smiles at him in gratitude and apology for his earlier outburst. 

 

“No, I mean, what are you doing  _ here _ ?” Hale asks. “We would have brought the remains to the Jeffersonian anyways, no need to come out here.”

 

“Ah, but how would I get my daily dose of FBI hunk otherwise?” Stiles jokes and turns towards Hale’s partner. “Speaking of - how are you this fine day, my dear Allison?”

 

“Why, dear Stiles, not quite as awake as when you saw me last last night, but otherwise fine,” Allison dimples back at him and Stiles hugs her quickly in greeting. Allison stayed even longer at the party than he did, but despite her words she’s looking far better than Stiles feels. But this is not the time to feel sorry for himself - there’s a body to study! As he’s turning towards the remains, he catches a glimpse of Hale’s facial expression, which for a moment looks faintly wistful and possibly even longing, but when Stiles looks again, it’s already back to Hale’s customary resting bitch face. Must have been a trick of the eye. Stiles blames the margaritas.

 

The remains are in atrocious condition and Stiles has to consciously hold himself back from rubbing his hands together in glee. But he does so love a good challenge. This is probably what Scott means when he tells Stiles to stop acting weird. 

 

Stiles became a forensic anthropologist because of the challenge initially. It’s a work that requires his entire focus to make sure he doesn’t miss anything because the tiniest mark on a bone can tell a long story. Through their bones you can tell where people lived, what they ate, which illnesses struck them down and which they survived, what injuries were deadly and which ones started knitting together again as the body healed. Bones don’t lie, and they always tell the same story, whether they are centuries old or broken yesterday. Stiles used to work mostly with the former, partnering with the history and archaeology departments, but he and his colleagues were asked to help with an FBI case once upon a time, and from that a regular partnership has been spawned. Stiles gets called in for cases where his expertise is needed, such as the current one. 

 

Erica is already kneeling next to the body, collecting her maggots and flies and all the other little creepers and crawlers that still give Stiles the heebie jeebies, but which are very helpful when you want at least a rough estimate of how long your victim has been dead. Thankfully Erica deals with them, which leaves the bones to Stiles - those he is much more comfortable with. Bones don’t crawl around; they don’t smell; and they don’t bite either. 

 

“Anything you can tell me already?” Hale asks and Stiles almost falls head first into the remains because he didn’t realise Hale was that close. A firm, muscular arm quickly wraps around his waist, though, keeping him upright. Feeling the blood rush into his cheeks, Stiles tries to hide it by stooping down and taking a closer look at the body. The movement makes the arm slip away from his waist, and if Stiles wants to jump up and snuggle back in, then it’s a good thing no one can read his thoughts. He shakes his head to clear his mind and focuses on the task at hand.

 

“As far as I can tell right now, we’re dealing with a middle aged male Caucasian, but I’ll be able to give you a more detailed answer once I’ve looked at the bones in the lab. Are your guys finished with the crime scene? Can we pack up the remains?” Stiles asks, tilting his head back so he can look at Hale, who is staring at something just behind Stiles. When Stiles shifts, about to turn around to see what’s so interesting, Hale’s eyes snap up to Stiles’ face and to Stiles’ surprise, Hale’s ears turn crimson. Allison snickers.

 

Truly curious now, Stiles twists around, but can’t see anything behind himself that would cause that reaction. Unless - was Hale looking at Stiles’ ass? It’s a nice enough butt, and Stiles is proud of it, but this is Hale they are talking about here. Agent Derek Hale, certified hottie (Erica printed a certificate for him once and it hangs on his office wall; Stiles saw it), and all around gorgeous specimen. His type doesn’t look at Stiles’ butt. 

 

Hale clears his throat awkwardly. 

 

“I think we’ve got everything we need for now, so yes, you can have the remains transported to the lab,” he says and then asks: “Are we dealing with a murder here?”

 

“There’s definitely some blunt force head trauma, but whether that’s the cause of death and if that means murder I can’t say yet. You know I don’t-” Stiles replies, but Hale interrupts him with an eye roll: “You don’t speculate, I know. So let’s get you up and into the lab, so you can give me something to work with without having to  _ speculate _ .”

 

He offers Stiles a hand up and Stiles takes it, saying primly once he’s standing upright again: “I like to keep an open mind and speculating before collecting all the evidence leads to a biased eye. And we don’t want that, do we?”

 

“You’ve spent far too much time with Lydia,” Allison laughs behind him and Stiles jumps because he completely forgot she was there, too. 

 

“Lydia is a goddess and there’s no way anyone could ever spend too much time with her,” Stiles retorts and sticks his tongue out for good measure because he is a grown up scientist, thank you very much. He glances at Hale out of the corner of his eye, expecting another eye roll, or anything that says “why am I being punished this way” but instead Hale looks disappointed, Stiles almost wants to say crushed? But going back over their conversation doesn’t offer any explanation for that reaction. 

 

Giving up on making sense of grumpy, confusing FBI agents for today, Stiles starts giving orders on how to transport the remains to the Jeffersonian and tries not to think too hard about how it felt to have Hale’s arm wrapped around his waist. Or that Hale apparently likes to stare at his butt. 

 

Well, so much for not thinking of grumpy, confusing, infuriatingly pretty FBI agents.

 

~*~

 

Stiles shouldn’t have gotten up this early. The exhaustion is making him see things - or perhaps it’s the margaritas still.

 

As he leaves the crime scene, he notices a man standing next to his Jeep. Nothing odd per se - Roscoe is a beauty and frequently attracts admirers wherever Stiles drives her. But there’s something familiar about this man, even with his back turned towards Stiles. Something in the shape of his back, the way he holds himself, something that screams “you know me” at Stiles. He speeds up his steps, intent on getting a closer look at this stranger, perhaps even talk to him, to see if Stiles’ instincts are right and he’s not actually a stranger after all. But the man either hears him or sees him in the car’s reflection, because he suddenly starts walking away from Stiles. By the time Stiles reaches the Jeep, the stranger is just disappearing around the next corner and Stiles can’t really justify shouting or running after him, so he just stares after him, trying not to listen to the little voice in his head that screams: “You know who that is, go after him!”

 

Deep breaths help somewhat, but when Stiles reaches out to open his car, he suddenly loses all air. There, sitting innocently on top of his side mirror, is a little dolphin figurine.

 

~*~

 

“They are so happy and free.”

 

That’s what his mum had said when Stiles had asked her why she liked dolphins so much. They had been her favourite animal - even before dragons, which six year old Stiles really didn’t get. She collected them in any and every form, figurines, and paintings, and books, and jewellery, often with the loving if uncomprehending help of her husband. For their 15th wedding anniversary he was going to take her to a place where you could swim with them. One of the nice ones, where the dolphins aren’t forced to do anything. But that obviously never came to pass. 

 

On a beautiful Wednesday in May, Stiles came home from school to discover his mom in a pool of blood in their kitchen. The same night, his dad didn’t come home. There was no sign that the two incidents were related; Stiles’ mum seemed to have been the victim of a burglary gone wrong, whereas Stiles’ dad had been a police officer investigating mafia-like structures, so his colleagues assumed that he’d dug too deep. He was first declared missing, and then presumed dead. At his mum’s funeral, an empty casket stood next to hers, dolphins painted on them both. The only reason Stiles didn’t get shuffled through the foster system was the generosity of his best friend’s family, Scott’s mum taking him in and treating him like a second son. Stiles got lucky in that way at least.

 

But to this day he still can’t stand to look at dolphins.

 

To find one on his side mirror is disconcerting to say the least. 

 

On an instinct he uses one of his disposable gloves to pack the figurine into an evidence bag and carefully stows it away. Then he finally gets into his car and lets his head thunk against the steering wheel. His breathing and heartbeat are unsteady and too fast, almost on the verge of a panic attack, and counting his own breaths just isn't working. With shaky hands he finally fumbles for his phone and hits Scott's name. 

 

After two rings, Scott picks up, asking “Stiles?” but Stiles can't do anything but grunt in response. Thankfully Scott doesn't ask any other questions, but simply starts counting calmly, reminding Stiles now and again to breath and count with him. Slowly, Stiles’s heart rate goes down and breathing starts coming easier again. When he croaks out his thanks his voice sounds as though he'd been screaming the whole time. 

 

Scott sounds understandably concerned as he asks: “Everything alright, Stiles? What happened?”

 

“Everything’s fine, Scott,” Stiles replies after clearing his throat. Scott’s noise of disbelief makes him amend his answer to a more truthful: “Well, not perfectly  _ fine _ perhaps, but certainly better. It was just - memories, you know?”

 

He feels bad about not telling the entire truth - he’s not lying to Scott, not really, it was the memories; he’s just keeping quiet on what kicked off the train down memory lane - but not enough to, well, actually tell the entire truth. It’s partly not wanting to upset Scott for what was probably nothing but an unlucky coincidence, and partly fearing Scott dismissing it all as pure chance. So instead of risking either, he just says nothing. And it works. Sort of.

 

“If you say so,” Scott says after a pause that screams ‘I know you are not telling me everything, but I’m not going to push because I’m the best friend/brother a guy could ask for’ and then mercifully switches topics: “ _ Abuelita _ totally drank Ally under the table after you left. She winked at me after Ally started snoring on my shoulder, though, so I think Ally actually passed the test?”

 

“Dude, yes, that was a rite of passage! Weren’t you there when  _ Abuelita _ made Tom cry because he didn’t want to drink another  _ Paloma _ in his life? It’s how she expresses her approval - copious amounts of alcohol!” Stiles exclaims, truly excited for Scott and Allison. Their  _ abuela _ is five feet and a hair small, but she’s the undisputed head of the family and all of her grandchildren’s partners have to gain her blessing. Technically she’s not Stiles’ grandma of course, at least not by blood, but she has already told him in no uncertain terms that he’ll not get out of it if he ever brings someone serious home. 

 

So far he’s still painfully single, though. A pair of description defying eyes underneath heavy eyebrows fills his inner eye at the thought, but that’s just because Derek’s single, too. 

 

“Did you see her?” Scott interrupts Stiles’ inner dialogue, also known as lying to himself, and Stiles asks: “Who?  _ Abuelita _ ?”

 

“No, Allison!” Scott replies, sounding more than a little exasperated. “She had to leave early this morning to a crime scene, and from what she said it sounded like one of your cases. Did you see her? How was she?”

 

“Gorgeous as always and telling me she was going to finally break up with you and run away with me?” Stiles jokes and laughs when Scott cries out in protest. “Relax, she’s only got eyes for you and you know it, dude! She did look gorgeous though and far less hungover than I expected. You sure chose well!”

 

“I did, didn’t I?” Scott sighs happily. Stiles rolls his eyes lovingly and replies: “Yes, you did, buddy. I gotta go now, talk to you later?”

 

“Later, see you perhaps, too?” Scott says, and Stiles promises: “I’ll do my best,” and finally hangs up. All the talk of Allison and their  _ abuela _ and alcohol was distracting enough that his heart rate has gone down to a level where he feels capable of driving again. There’s still a bit of the jitteriness of a panic attack, but it’s something he learned working around long ago, so after two more deep breaths, Stiles starts the Jeep and finally gets a move on to the lab.

 

He’s got a mystery to solve.

 

Oh, and that body in the morgue to identify; the work that actually gets him payed. That too.

 

~*~

 

When Stiles finally makes it to the Jeffersonian, the remains are already up on the platform. 

 

The platform is the heart of the lab; it’s where they first examine the remains that get brought in before they all separate to focus on their different tasks. There’s an examination table up there, surrounded by computers and various work stations to let them all work parallel at the same time without having to go back and forth between their respective offices. Currently Morrell and Erica are busy with collecting evidence, whatever flesh remains on the bones and more little creepy crawlies respectively. Boyd is taking pictures to document everything and as a base to work with in case the DNA test fails and they need his talent as a forensic artist to identify the victim. 

 

Kira is readying everything to clean the bones once everyone else is finished with the remains, but for now there's nothing pressing for Stiles to do. Thus he takes the chance to disappear into his office for a moment.

 

There, the first thing he does is move the little dolphin figurine to a proper evidence case, so that it's safe from contamination - or breakage. He hesitates before labeling it, unsure if he even should, but then grabs a pen resolutely and putting “Case: Batman, Piece of Evidence 1: Dolphin figurine” on the label. 

 

~*~

 

Morrell’s DNA test turns out inconclusive, so it’s up to Boyd now, if they want a chance of identifying their victim. 

 

Boyd’s work as a forensic artist in the case of post mortem drawing is to recreate as accurately as possible how the victim looked prior to death. Damage and decomposition complicate this, hiding identifying features or distorting them. Which is why even when there is still flesh and hair to work with, Boyd always starts at the underlying bone structure. Cheekbones, chin, forehead, all of this forms the base which shapes the rest of the face. Adding cartillage, muscles, skin, and hair, slowly a skull comes alive again, producing an image that can be used to compare to databases like missing people records or can be shown to witnesses. There’s always a certain amount of guessing involved - not all cosmetic procedures leave lasting enough marks that they can be calculated into the forensic drawing for example. But Boyd has a lot of experience and a good eye for details, and most importantly, a great intuition. He has seldomly guided them wrong with his work.

 

So when Boyd calls them in to show them his artistic representation of their latest victim, Stiles has no doubt that Boyd’s drawing will be good enough that someone will be able to identify their John Doe from it. He just doesn’t expect that someone to be him. 

 

“We already know that we have a white male in his thirties to forties of slightly over average build and well-toned musculature,” Boyd says while pulling up the image. “Working off of that, this is what I’ve got so far. I’m about to run it through the missing persons database; I just wanted to show you all first in case you noticed something I missed.”

 

He might say something after that but Stiles can’t hear it anymore because there’s a loud ringing in his ears and for the second time in one day, his breathing speeds up worryingly. There’s a flurry of movement around him and then gentle hands guiding him to sit on an office chair that has suddenly appeared behind him. Someone tries to make him drop his head between his knees, but Stiles doesn’t budge, can’t budge because the image on the big screen in Boyd’s office is keeping him captive. 

 

He’d always wondered how the witnesses must feel - looking at the drawing of an identified victim and recognising that person. Now he knows how - numb. There’s just the emotional equivalent of white static where his feelings are supposed to be and Stiles knows he’s panicking, but he doesn’t  _ feel _ it. It somehow makes it harder to concentrate on his breathing, because it’s like the impending panic attack is happening to someone else. Strangely enough, counting inside his own head as if talking someone else down from the edge actually works. Not as well as when Scott does it, but still better than Stiles expected.

 

Slowly his breaths start coming more easily and as the panic recedes, Stiles’ awareness of his surroundings returns. A familiar voice is asking insistently: “Stiles, Stiles, can you hear me? Come on, please breathe!” and as Stiles’ eyes flutter open, he sees Derek Hale’s face, still unfairly beautiful even when lined with worry. 

 

“Dude, you suck at panic attack first aid,” Stiles jokes weakly, feeling shaky and overwhelmed. But his joke makes Hale’s face shut down again and this isn’t what Stiles wanted to achieve. So he grabs for Hale, intending to go for the shoulders, but somehow ending up with Hale’s face cupped between his hands - he’ll blame the recent lack of oxygen for that - and promises: “Don’t worry; I’ll show you what to do next time.” 

 

Hale doesn’t say anything, but under Stiles’ hands his cheeks warm slightly and Stiles strokes across the quickly deepening blush in fascination. He hadn’t realised you’d be able to feel the heat of the blood rushing to the surface from the outside as well. It’s a very faint difference, but definitely noticeable while it’s happening. 

 

Stiles doesn’t know how long he would have kept stroking Hale’s increasingly hot and bright cheeks if a discreet cough hadn’t shaken him out of his thoughts. Finally realising what he’s doing, Stiles snatches his hands back and tries not to think about how adorable Hale’s blush looks when not covered by Stiles’ hands. Thus distracted, his honest question “What are you doing here?” comes out quite a bit harsher than intended.

 

“We came by on the way back from the crime scene to see if you guys have anything for us yet,” Hale explains, face blank again, but Stiles can’t focus on that right now, because - “We?”

 

He finally looks beyond Hale and sees Allison stand in front of the screen, a hand clasped across her mouth, face ashen.

 

“You recognise him, too, don’t you?” Stiles asks and relief rushes through him as she nods jerkily. He’d been half-afraid that his mind was playing tricks on him because of his earlier dolphin related encounter. But if Allison recognises the man Boyd has drawn based on their victim up on the platform, too, then this isn’t Stiles imagining things.

 

“You know him?” Hale asks and Stiles doesn’t know which one of them he’s addressing, but it doesn’t matter anyways.

 

“Yes,” he replies, looking back up at the image displayed larger than life before them. “Our victim is Jordan Parrish, the deputy that disappeared along with my dad.”

 

~*~

 

Hale had insisted on driving both of them home soon after and given how pale Allison still was and how shaky he still felt, Stiles didn’t protest too much. If he was honest, he wouldn’t be much help for anyone anymore today anyways, so going home was simply sensible. If he was  _ completely _ honest with himself, though, he still protested because he dreaded sitting home alone with just his thoughts for company. But when they reach Scott and Allison’s, Allison grabs his hand and drags him out of the car with her. Stiles barely gets a chance to thank Hale for driving them. But he does notice Hale looking strangely wistful again, but also resigned this time. Stiles really wonders sometimes what goes through that man’s head. But before he does something dumb like  _ ask _ , Allison opens the door and Hale drives away without another glance backwards as far as Stiles can tell. 

 

“Ally? Is that you? Home so early? Did the margaritas get you after all?” Scott asks, coming out of the kitchen. He stops short when he sees the two of them and Stiles wonders whether they look even worse than they feel.

 

“Bad day?” Scott asks and Stiles nods, seeing Allison do the same. Scott steps forward and grabs Allison’s free hand. “Can you tell me about it?” 

 

“No,” Allison says, voice surprisingly hoarse. “Ongoing investigation, you know I can’t - “

 

“- divulge any information, I know, don’t worry about it,” Scott finishes her sentence for her and starts walking towards the bedroom, tugging Allison and with her Stiles along with him. He doesn’t ask any further questions, just grabs one of his own comfy sweaters for Allison, who finally lets go of Stiles’ hand to put it on. The sudden loss of contact leaves Stiles adrift, unsure what he’s even doing here, but he hasn’t taken more than one step backwards before Scott drops another sweater into his hands and gently shoves him towards the bed where Allison is already doing her best to disappear between the pillows and blankets.

 

“Go on, put that on and jump into bed. I’ll just make some hot chocolate and then I’ll join you,” Scott insists and Stiles obeys him unthinkingly. The sweater is soft and warm and the bed is even warmer when he climbs in. Allison reaches out for his hand immediately once he is close enough again and Stiles gladly takes it. 

 

That’s how Scott finds them, when he comes back, carefully balancing three cups of hot chocolate - silently lying in bed, holding hands. He doesn’t comment, though, just puts down the cups on one side table and grabs a book lying on it. Climbing into bed, he doesn’t slip in between them, but sits with his back against the board at the foot of the bed, legs stretched out between them towards the headboard. Stiles braces himself for the questioning to start now, but Scott just opens his book and begins reading. In the silent room, Scott’s breathing is loud and Stiles simply listens to it, tries to count along with it, to breathe along with it and to not think about anything but the next breath. At first he’s still taking in two breaths for one of Scott’s, but slowly they are getting more in sync, three of Stiles’ breaths for two of Scott, then five for four, and so on, until their breathing finally matches. 

 

Next to him, Allison sighs and then her grip on Stiles’ hand slackens. When he turns to his side, he sees that her eyes are closed and that her chest is rising and falling steadily; she has fallen asleep. Stiles carefully grips her hand a little tighter, closes his eyes and lets the scent of hot chocolate and the sound of Scott’s calm breathing and occasional turning of apage lull him into sleep, too.

 

~*~

 

When Stiles comes into work the next morning, a blonde stranger is standing in his office.

 

Snooping through his office actually.

 

She’s currently holding the evidence box with the dolphin figurine in her hands and Stiles knows for a fact that he put that one away out of sight into one of the many drawers at the bottom of his bookcase which no one but him ever looks into. Until now. She either got incredibly lucky or she went through his stuff meticulously to find that particular item. So Stiles asks sharply:

 

“What the  _ hell  _ do you think you are doing?”

 

Morrell would probably lecture him on appropriate language in the workspace, but in this case Stiles thinks a small expletive is justifiable. 

 

The stranger turns around slowly, not appearing at all guilty to be caught snooping. She’s pretty, looks to be in her thirties, late thirties perhaps, and very self-confident, smile wide and white.

 

“What a pretty little trinket you have here,” she says and holds up the box containing the dolphin figurine, ignoring Stiles’ question entirely. “I wonder why it was hidden away?”

 

Stiles clenches his teeth and reminds himself that it wouldn’t be very inconspicuous to jump forward and rip the box out of her hands. But two can play this game and Stiles is in it to win.

 

“Not hidden, just stowed away. I do like my workspace neat and tidy and my things safe from prying, unauthorised eyes,” he replies, smiling angelically. 

 

The first is a bald faced lie and while her eyes flicking to the messy stacks on his desk shows that she knows it as well, she doesn’t call him out on it. The second is a thinly veiled dig at her presence and her behaviour so far, and that one hits where it’s supposed to, her smile freezing slightly on her face, eyes narrowing slightly, appraising him anew. A small incline of her head is the only outward acknowledgement and then she puts down the box on Stiles’ desk and steps around it with her hand held out in greeting.

 

“I am Major Kate Argent; you must be Stiles,” she says with a smile, and Stiles shakes her hand firmly, fully aware that his smile is all teeth. Argent? It’s not a very common name and Allison did mention once that most of her estranged family is in the police force, so they are probably of some relation. They do share the good looks, but Allison definitely got all the charm.  _ Major Kate Argent _ , pfff. Is that supposed to impress or perhaps even intimidate him?

 

“Dr. Stiles Stilinski,” he returns and snottily adds: “That’s two doctorates actually, but I won’t ask you to call me Dr. Dr. Stilinski, Dr. Stilinski will suffice for now.”

 

If she wants to play the title game then she’d better be prepared to lose. 

 

“Now what brings you to my office that makes you dive that deep into my possessions without my consent?” he asks, smile sharpening further. 

 

“Your corpse,” Kate replies and while Stiles knows that she means the body up on the platform - he’s still having trouble grasping that it’s Parrish - she makes it sound like enough of a threat that it sends chills down his back. Her smirk says that she knows it, too. “He was one of our own and we wanted to make sure everything was done to bring his wicked murderer to justice.”

 

She’s good, and Stiles might have almost believed her, if he hadn’t caught her going through his things already. The thinly veiled insult that he and his co-workers need a supervisor to do their job properly doesn’t help either. So instead of rolling over and saying “yes mistress, step on me”, like Kate would surely prefer and probably even expects, Stiles smiles his sweetest smile and says: “Oh, that’s too bad, this is an FBI investigation, so I really can’t tell you anything. What a shame that you’ve come all the way here for nothing!”

 

He’s certainly not going to win any Oscars for those histrionics, but his fake concern at least earns him the joy of getting to see Kate’s expression sour until she looks like she’d been forced to eat a lemon whole, rind and all. She’s not giving up yet, though, visibly gritting her teeth before pasting another, even faker smile on her face and replying:

 

“You don’t need to worry about that; it’s all been signed off by the FBI. They are very interested in a smooth cooperation from all parties and it wouldn’t do to upset the FBI, would it?”

 

There she goes again with the threats, but Stiles just shrugs and says: “Unless you’ve got that written, signed, and stamped, Ma’am, I can’t let you see any of our work. We do have a very nice break room with a great coffee machine; you can wait there while I talk to my boss. She’ll be able to make the necessary calls and if she’s able to verify your story, I’ll come and get you.”

 

He pointedly steps to the side, clearing the doorway, but doesn’t actually turn his back on Kate. Who knows how many of his things she’d pilfer if given the chance. She sniffs haughtily but finally stops arguing and steps out of the room with a jerk of her head that makes the light glint of the thick metal hair pin that holds up her bun. It’s all very Mean Girls and Stiles rolls his eyes behind her back. Then he scans his office quickly for any other signs of her messing with his things, but nothing appears to be ammiss. He’s just glad that he hasn’t actually been involved in Parrish’s case yet, so there’s no evidence for her to steal or tamper with in his room - Stiles does make a mental note to warn the others of Kate and her suspect actions. Hopefully she’d not gone through the others’ offices before coming to his - she’d probably have been more successful there. 

 

The tapping of heels on the floor reminds him of Kate’s presence and he hurries out of his office. She’s heading towards the platform of course and Stiles has to put on a burst of speed to intercept her just before the stairs that lead up to the second floor where the break room is located. 

 

“This way please,” he says sweetly, swerving into her path so suddenly that she steps on his foot. Stiles bites back a yelp because she somehow managed to put her heel down right on his instep, and heavily, too. Her expression does seem to suggest that there was nothing accidental about that, despite her insincere apology coming right after, which Stiles waves away. (If his waving hand hits her, then that’s just his klutzy tendencies manifesting. And anyways, she could have stepped away, then she wouldn’t have been in any danger. So really, she should be glad he didn’t hit her harder.)

 

It’s with obvious reluctance that Kate lets herself be shunted off to the breakroom; Stiles sees her craning her neck on the stairs to catch a glimpse of what’s happening on the platform and she slows down so much at one point that he walks into her - actually accidentally this time. Finally he has got her settled in with a coffee and the promise to ask Morrell about verifying Kate’s accreditation, though, and makes his escape. 

 

And if talking to Morrell about calling up the FBI to confirm Kate’s story escapes his mind for the rest of the morning? Well, he’s very busy with his job! Serves her right for snooping through his things.

 

~*~

 

Unfortunately it does turn out that Kate has the clearing to observe their work, however Stiles might feel about that. Technically she hasn't really done anything to deserve his suspicions, at least not to this degree - picking up stuff he wasn't supposed to because he got bored waiting for someone is something Stiles himself has been guilty of admittedly. But Stiles’ instincts are screaming that something’s not as it seems with her, not quite right. It’s not just the snooping, but how she went straight for the one secret he actually had hidden in that room, and her whole attitude and reaction to him catching her in the act and how urgently she wants to be involved in the investigation. Still, he’d worry more about being paranoid if Allison’s reply to the quick question he shot her about whether Kate was of any relation to her hadn’t been: “Constant vigilance!” Apparently Kate is her father’s sister, part of the estranged part of the family and Allison hasn’t seen her in years because her father is strictly against any contact.

 

While Stiles appreciates the Harry Potter reference, Allison’s warning does corroborate his own suspicions and that means he has a person in his lab who he does not want there at all. But other than throwing one of Erica’s explosive concoctions at her, he can’t see a way to get rid of her at the moment. 

 

What he can do, however, is being the biggest pain in her ass that she has ever known. 

 

Stiles is well known for his clumsiness, but today he achieves some sort of record. He keeps stepping on Kate’s toes until she gives the examination table a wide berth, which of course means she can’t see as well - and sure can’t meddle. He knocks over beakers with various fluids in them (nothing important to the investigation or particularly expensive of course), managing to either splatter Kate with the contents or making her slip on the wet spot at least two out of three times. At one point he’s pretty sure Erica starts putting beakers filled with purely water in the range of his elbow - it’s an obvious challenge and Stiles is determined to meet it. Soon after, Kate actually has to borrow a spare pair of scrubs they keep in the lab in the case of accidental spillage because her clothes are soaked through. Stiles low-fives Erica under the table where Morrell can’t see it. With the way Morrell’s face has become stonier with every leading question from Kate that insults their work, though, Stiles thinks they could have high-fived over the table, too, and Morrell might have actually joined them.

 

While Kate is changing, Hale arrives. He goes straight for Stiles, grabbing him by the shoulders, eyes flicking over his face and body as if to make sure he’s alright. 

 

“Where is she?” he demands and Stiles blinks. 

 

“Who, Kate?” he asks and, without waiting for Hale to reply out loud - his face is talking enough for him anyways - adds: “How do you know she’s here? And what are you doing here anyways? Do you know her or what?”

 

Hale only answers one of his questions, muttering “Allison”, but Kate, who must have returned without Stiles noticing it, answers another one:

 

“Oh, Derbear, didn’t expect to see you here!”

 

Stiles sees how Hale’s expression freezes at the sound of her voice and feels how Hale’s hands, which are still holding on to Stiles, clench slightly before relaxing again and finally releasing Stiles. Hale turns around to face Kate and Stiles finds himself staring at his back now, a rigid line of tension, ready to fight. It hits Stiles suddenly that Hale has positioned himself in front of Stiles, as if wanting to protect him - from what though? Kate might be weird and rubbing Stiles wrong, but it’s not as if she’s going to attack him in front of all of his co-workers. 

 

“D.I. Argent,” Hale bites out and Stiles swallows. He hasn’t ever heard that tone of voice from Hale - he has gotten harsh with Stiles before, especially when they first started working together and were still figuring each other out, but never that harsh. And for a while now, their exchanges have been playful rather than mean. There’s obviously some history between Kate and Hale, if she inspires such a venomous response from him.

 

“Oooh, are we playing the title game,  _ Agent _ Hale? Then it’s Major Argent now; it’s been a while after all since we last saw each other. And my, you’ve sure grown up nice! No longer a pimply teenager, are you?”

 

Stiles can’t see her leer because Hale is still standing in front of him, but he can hear it - and feel it. And if it’s bad enough to make him feel dirty, then he doesn’t even want to imagine how Hale must feel, given that it was directed at him. 

 

“What are you doing here, Major?” Hale asks, ignoring everything else she said. “This is an FBI investigation, and we do not require your help.”

 

“Didn’t mummy-dearest tell you?” Kate questions innocently. “You are investigating the death of one of ours, so of course we’d want to make sure this investigation is the best it could be! Wouldn’t want the wrong one to be accused, would we?”

 

There's something in her voice that speaks of some history here and Hale’s stiffening spine seems to say the same. The tension is radiating off him and Stiles decides that this has been going on long enough. He claps his hands together and steps out of Hale’s shadow finally. 

 

“Let's get back to work then, shall we? That's been quite enough metaphorical pissing if you ask me and if anyone's going to win a pissing contest in my lab it's going to be me, so you might as well stop now.”

 

He hears Erica stifle a snort behind him and can practically feel Hale’s eye roll behind his back, but he doesn't take his eyes off Kate. Never turn your back on a predator and don't show any weakness is what they say, isn't it? 

 

Kate’s smile is sickly sweet and obviously fake. 

 

“I’m sorry, Dr. Stilinski, please do continue!”

 

She gestures magnanimously at the remains and Stiles clenches his teeth at her acting like this is her turf and not like she’s the actual guest. They’ll never get anywhere if he calls out every single of her actions, though, so he swallows down the snarky remark he desperately wants to make and goes back to work. 

 

Unfortunately, things go even slower now that he’s got not one, but two people hovering at his elbows. Kate’s on one side and Hale on the other, both standing far too close for comfort, though Stiles finds himself leaning further into Hale the closer Kate comes to him. There’s just something about her that creeps him out terribly. The whole situation isn’t conducive to concentrating on his work, though. It’s making him fear he’s going to miss something, something important, something that’s going to help them crack this case. The messages Stiles reads in bones are often subtle, tiny marks that speak of wounds sustained long ago, little holes that remain even after an illness has been battled back. All of that requires his full concentration and it’s hard to give it that.

 

Parrish’s bones tell a long story, one of many pains and sufferings. That Stiles is used to because bones record the breaks and aches of a life, not the joys and smiles. But Parrish’s life has left many marks on his bones - breaks, and sprains, and bullet holes. Most of it Stiles can explain; he knows about Parrish’s time in the army, and then his time in the police force. Those wounds have healed, bones knitting together over time, but there’s more recent marks, too, once that haven’t had a chance to heal, or barely had a chance.

 

Stiles is just about to take a closer look at one of them, lesions around the wrists that look worryingly like torture marks, when Kate’s arm suddenly blocks his line of sight.

 

“What about this one?” she asks, pointing at a fracture on the left temple that Stiles hasn’t examined in detail yet. “Could this be the cause of death?”

 

Stiles clenches his teeth and reminds himself again that he’s an adult and that means he can’t just stomp on the toes of whomever annoys him, however much he wants to.

 

“Possibly,” he allows grudgingly after examining it perfunctorily. “But I won’t be able to say for sure until I’ve got the X-rays and can study the bones in detail in the bone room.” The bone room is the true heart of the lab as far as Stiles is concerned, even if the platform might technically be the centre. Here the bones can be examined thoroughly, with bright lights and great magnifiers, big screens displaying the X-rays, all set up, so Stiles can find even the thinnest hairline crack. It’s where the true magic happens, as he likes to say. 

 

Kate obviously isn’t happy with his answer, opening her mouth to probably complain or demand he give a definite answer right this moment, so Stiles quickly continues: “That’s all you’ll get until then, because I don’t speculate.”

 

Next to him, Hale twitches. 

 

~*~

 

Unfortunately it turns out that Kate is right.

 

It both infuriates Stiles and further raises his suspicions. Because by rights Kate shouldn’t have known what to even look for in the first place. As far as Stiles knows she has no background in forensics beyond the very basic stuff the force deals with, so really, how did she pick out the one wound that does seem to have been the deadly one? Of course, it’s also the biggest head wound, evidence of some strong blunt force trauma, so perhaps she just went off that. Something is telling Stiles though that this is not the whole truth, even if it might be the most plausible explanation. Kate didn’t just land a lucky guess, he’s sure of that.

 

However, be that as it may, they’ve got a probable cause of death now, and that’s blunt force trauma, exerted with a firm, straight object with a round intersection. An object that doesn’t match any of the evidence the FBI has collected at the crime scene so far, so Stiles gets to do one of his favourite things once more: field work!

 

This time his excitement stems not only from getting to do field work, but from the fact that said field work takes him far away from Kate Argent, who is still hanging around (or creeping around if you ask Stiles) the lab. Plus, the field work is a welcome opportunity for Stiles to grill Hale on his history with Kate.

 

Stiles half-expected Kate to tag along, but Morrell had kept her distracted long enough for Stiles to slip away with Hale. They are now on the way back to the crime scene, in the hopes of finding the assault weapon, which might give them some more clues as to who their murderer might be. And while Hale can’t escape from him because they are in a moving car (and Hale is driving, otherwise Stiles would not put it past him to throw himself out of the car anyways, if he’d really want to avoid a conversation), Stiles is going to get to the bottom of how Hale knows Kate Argent.

 

“So what’s the deal with you and Kate?” he asks and Hale doesn’t swerve, but his hands tighten noticeably around the steering wheel, which is as good as a swerve for him.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hale bites back and Stiles is honestly insulted.

 

“Oh please,” he scoffs, “anyone with eyes could see that there’s some history between you two and I’m just wondering what that might be.” He hesitates a moment and then adds more gently: “I’m not trying to pry -” This time it’s Hale’s turn to scoff and Stiles quickly amends: “Okay, perhaps a little - I’m curious, sue me! But really, it’s just - if she’s got anything on you, I’d prefer to get to know it now, so that I can properly plan how to dispose of the body.”

 

“Her body?” Hale asks, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“Yes,  _ her _ body, duh! If you think I’d side with her against you instead of the other way round then our relationship is really much different than I thought!”

 

His voice breaks a little on “relationship” which is ridiculous because he means working relationship and Hale obviously knows that, too. Nevertheless his heart skips a beat when Hale smiles softly and replies: “You are not mistaken about our relationship, Stiles.”

 

It’s strange to hear something other than his last name coming out of Hale’s mouth, but also - nice? Which makes Stiles wonder why they’ve stuck to last names for so long, which in turn makes him wonder how it’d be to call Hale by his first name, too. 

 

Derek. 

 

What’d it be like to call him Derek. 

 

It’s a nice name, strong and sturdy, just like Hale,  _ Derek _ . Stiles likes it. The name he means, not Hale being strong and sturdy. Though that is nice, too.

 

“We met when I was still in highschool,” Hale suddenly says and Stiles starts.

 

“Mmhm?” he says intelligently and Hale explains: “Kate Argent. Long, embarrassing story short, I fancied myself in love with her, she duped me, and my mom almost lost her job and her life because of her. There was no usable evidence against her, so Kate got away scot-free, and I signed up for the army as soon as I could. It’s not a time of my life I like revisiting and Kate’s presence here certainly doesn’t make me jump with joy. Still willing to hide her body instead of mine?”

 

His voice turns almost combative at the end, as if he’s expecting Stiles to change his mind now that he heard what happened between Kate and Hale, but he couldn’t be further from the truth. Stiles is well aware that he’s only gotten the bare bones of the story, but that together with Kate’s behaviour and remarks plus how Hale reacted to her sudden appearance paints a vivid enough picture to make Stiles’ stomach roll. It’s not hard to imagine pimply teenager Derek Hale, not yet as built, not yet as confident, and how easy it would have been for Kate Argent, at least half a decade his senior if not a decade, as beautiful as dangerous, to hook her claws into him. Everything else is a little harder to figure out, but it’s clear that, whatever happened, Hale still carries around a fair bit of guilt for it. Stiles can’t help him with that, but he’s at least going to make sure that there won’t be any doubt as to where he stands in this.

 

“Derek, whatever she might be planning now, I promise you, I’m not going to let her get away with it. History won’t repeat itself here; not if I’ve got any say in it. This time you won’t be alone; we’ll face her together,” he says, trying to make Hale believe him. He isn’t quite sure it works; Hale is currently staring at him with wide eyes, ignoring the car horns behind them while the traffic light in front of them turns from green back to red. Perhaps Stiles has gone a little too far in the “proving he’s on Hale’s side” - he might have gone straight past compassionate colleague to presumptuous prat. But while he’s still wracking his mind for a joke to break the tension and play down his dramatic declaration, Hale speaks up again.

 

“Together against the wicked witch of the west?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, I quite like Elphaba,” Stiles jokes, but quickly confirms nevertheless: “Together.”

 

~*~

 

There’s a man at the crime scene.

 

Stiles only catches a glimpse of him, broad shoulders over a strong back, before Hale steps in front of him, hand on his service weapon. It’s clear that this isn’t someone from the FBI, authorised to be here. Stiles wonders whether it's someone with more curiosity than is healthy or someone with more malicious intent. He peers around Hale’s back and can't stifle a gasp. 

 

The man turns around and Stiles stumbles backwards. 

 

“Dad?” he whispers and the man,  _ his dad _ , opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Hale brandishes his gun and shouts:

 

“Freeze! This is an FBI crime scene, lift your hands and state your name and purpose!”

 

Stiles’ dad - and he’s older, and greyer, and more wrinkled than Stiles remembers, but he’s undoubtedly Stiles’ dad - lifts his hands, stares past Hale straight at Stiles, saying: “I’m so sorry, Stiles,” and dives behind the nearest pile of rubble.

 

Hale swings his gun around and Stiles throws himself forward, automatically, unthinkingly. He grabs Hale’s arm, forcing it and the gun it holds down, yelling “Stop! Please!” while he does, and in the general mayhem, Stiles’ dad disappears.

 

~*~

 

“What the hell, Stilinski?”

 

Hale first scanned the perimeter, Stiles’ dad long gone and then started yelling at Stiles, but Stiles doesn’t even really notice.

 

“That was my dad,” he says tonelessly, and then repeats himself with more insistence: “That was  _ my dad _ !”

 

He hadn’t even really been directing his words at Hale, not expecting to be heard over the yelling, but Hale’s rant peters out nevertheless.

 

“What?” Hale asks and Stiles blinks, confused. 

 

“What?” he returns and Hale takes a deep breath, as if asking for patience.

 

“What did you just say?” he says, stressing every single word, and then adds: “You said that was your dad - I thought you were an orphan?”

 

“So did I,” Stiles replies and that’s where it all suddenly hits him, breath getting short and knees wobbly, and he weakly says: “I think I’d better sit down now.”

 

His body reacts quicker than he tells it to, but just as his legs crumble away beneath him Hale is there to catch him and lower him more gently to the floor.

 

“Stilinski, hey, look at me, come on, Stiles, keep breathing,” he says, words coming hard and fast, but Stiles can’t focus on anything right now but his own heartbeat and the breaths he takes. Thankfully it doesn’t turn into a full blown panic attack; even just the beginning of one is more than he’s had in years - except for the one he had in his car at the beginning of this case. That was also near this particular crime scene; perhaps he should rethink returning here again. 

 

“Are you okay?” Hale asks and Stiles’ answer is a very intelligible “Urgh” but it does describe his current state of being best. Unfortunately he only gets a few precious seconds of trying to find his bearings again before Hale starts with the questioning again. The one time when Stiles needs him to be quiet and suddenly he finds his talkative side.

 

“Was that another panic attack? Do you have them often? And again, what did you mean that was your dad? That can’t be? And if he was, how is he not dead and what was he doing here?”

 

Stiles decides to start with the one question he can actually answer: “That just now was just the beginnings of a panic attack, and yes, they are even less fun to go through than they are to witness. I used to have them pretty regularly after my mum died and my dad disappeared. He was presumed dead, never seen again, so I called myself an orphan because it seemed to be true. But that man there? That was my dad, I'm absolutely sure. As for the rest of your questions - I have no clue. I don't know how he isn't dead and I don't know why he was here either.”

 

Hale remains silent for so long that Stiles is getting twitchy. The longer the silence holds, the more thoughts run through his head. What if Hale doesn't believe him, thinking Stiles is mad, is seeing things? Stiles barely believes it himself; he wouldn't blame Hale if he had doubts. But what if Hale does believe him? Somehow that option isn't as reassuring as it should be either. If Hale believes Stiles then he also believes that Stiles’s dad is alive and that would somehow make it all that much more real. 

 

When Hale finally speaks up again, his voice is grave: “You know I'm going to have to report this, so please tell me: are you absolutely, without a doubt sure that that was your father?”

 

“I am,” Stiles says firmly. He'd swear it before God and country, too, but he gets why Hale asked. His dad is a missing person, presumed dead, and his reappearance is going to open or reopen more than one investigation. 

 

Hale accepts his answer without demanding further explanations or proof, for which Stiles is immensely grateful. 

 

“Alright, thank you,” is all else Hale says on the topic before he asks Stiles: “Are you okay to start looking for the evidence we originally came here for? I'll call this in in the meantime; we'll need to assign some guards, in case he comes back or someone else shows interest in this crime scene.”

 

He waits for Stiles to give his okay before he gets out his phone and steps aside to make his calls. Stiles remains seated for a few more deep breaths, mentally checking all his limbs to make sure he's not going to fall down again as soon as he attempts to get up. Fainting now would really be the icing on the cake. 

 

Thankfully his legs cooperate when he finally gets up. He still feels a little like a newborn colt, but that's nothing he can't handle. Hale is still busy with his phone, arguing with someone it seems like, so Stiles goes to finally do what he came here for - find the murder weapon.

 

He starts where they found the body, working his way out in spiral form so that he can be sure that he doesn't miss anything. It doesn't take long to find something, a piece of pipe that looks to have the dimensions they'd calculated for the murder weapon. Stiles is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he can't shake the feeling that it didn't take long enough to find that piece of evidence. The pipe is barely hidden beneath some rubbish, almost like it was meant to be found, which doesn't make sense. Which murderer wants his murder weapon to be found? 

 

Stiles can't make heads nor tails of it, so he doesn't mention his suspicions when Hale joins him again, just shows him the pipe. He hasn't moved it yet, wanting to show Hale first, and to his gratification Hale picks up on the same thing Stiles did immediately. 

 

Brows drawn together heavily, he studies the pipe’s placement, looking back and forth between it and the place where the body lay several times. 

 

“That's the murder weapon, you think?” he asks, adding: “That seems like a strange place to hide it, doesn't it?”

 

“Yes!” Stiles exclaims, relieved that it wasn't just him. “But it's the only match I've found so far, so we'll have to bring it in nevertheless I'm afraid. Still suspicious though.”

 

They check the rest of the crime scene too, just to make sure they don't miss anything, but in the end the pipe is the only promising find. When Stiles pulls it out of the pile of rubbish, it becomes clear that this almost guaranteed to be their murder weapon - there's a lot of dried blood along one end, as if someone had been hit in the head with it. And turning it around, he sees a bloody smeared fingerprint on the other end, where the murderer would have held on to it. It's another lucky find, but Stiles can only think of something his dad used to say: “Once is chance, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern.” 

 

This is the third time they'd had a lucky break on this case now. First Kate's identification of the deadly wound, then the discovery of the barely hidden murder weapon which has now also given them not one but two potential ways of identifying their murderer - either through the fingerprint or through a DNA analysis of the blood. 

 

This is all going too smoothly for Stiles’ taste. 

 

~*~

 

For the first time ever, Stiles is in the Jeffersonian and wishes he were somewhere else. 

 

“I'm sorry to hear about your father,” Kate had said, sounding rather insincere. “It must be so hard to discover that you were sired by a murderer.”

 

Stiles sees Erica mouth “sired?!” behind Kate's back but he’s too baffled by Kate’s statement to laugh. 

 

“I’m sorry, what?”

 

Kate blinks innocently. 

 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Parrish disappeared along with your father, didn’t he? Now he’s dead and your father is seen sneaking around the crime scene. He obviously killed him and was trying to hide or destroy evidence!”

 

Stiles curls his hands together until he can feel his nails biting into his palms. The pain helps to ground him enough that he can keep his voice at least somewhat calm and steady.

 

“We do not have a single piece of hard evidence right now that suggests my father had anything to do with Parrish’s murder. Until that changes, everything else is just speculation and I’ve told you once before that I do not tolerate that in my lab.” 

 

He stops just short of throwing Kate out, but the threat is clear nevertheless. She backs off with a quirk of her mouth that says that this is only temporary. She’s not backing off entirely. But Stiles is going to take what he can get, so he turns his back on her, to face Boyd, who has witnessed their exchange silently.

 

“Have you had any luck with the fingerprint?”

 

Boyd shakes his head. He’d been working on scanning and comparing the smeared fingerprint in the hopes of finding a match, but looks like that line of investigation was a bust. 

 

“It was too smudged to get a clear enough image to run through a matching software,” Boyd explains. “I tried reversing the smearing, but that leaves us with too many possible matches to get a reliable identification. That leaves the blood. The DNA doesn’t match Parrish’s, so we’re probably dealing with our murderer’s blood here. Unfortunately I haven’t gotten a match with any of the regular databases yet.”

 

Boyd doesn’t say anything else, but Kate isn’t so kind.

 

“If only we had someone on hand who could give us at least a partial match,” she feigns. Stiles doesn’t need to see her smug face to know he wants to punch it. That she’s right only makes it worse. Carefully keeping his face blank and his voice emotionless, he says:

 

“Boyd, compare the DNA of our suspected murderer to my DNA.”

 

All of their DNAs are in a local database, to allow for quick comparisons in case there’s ever any fear that a piece of evidence has been accidentally contaminated. It doesn’t take Boyd long to pull up the file with Stiles’ data, and even less time for the programme to compare the two samples. 

 

There’s a ping that signals that a match has been found and Stiles closes his eyes, already knowing what Boyd is going to read out:

 

“Partial match found, probably parent-child relationship.”

 

Stiles’ dad is a murderer.

 

~*~

 

Apparently having a suspected murderer for a father comes with its own set of perks - if by perks you mean terrible inconveniences. Stiles is definitely leaning towards the latter. He’d had to fight tooth and nail to be able to go home alone tonight, without a three man security details - as if there was any indication that his dad was after him at all. It had taken a temper tantrum to make everyone back off and even after that, Stiles is pretty sure that Hale tailed him home.

 

At least he sure hopes so, because the door to his flat stands ajar and he hasn’t even gotten his key out. With shaky fingers he gets his phone out and it’s pure muscle memory that allows him to call Hale.

 

“What is it, Stilinski?” Hale asks gruffly, offering no other greeting, but Stiles doesn’t have time for the niceties anyways.

 

“Please tell me you were a big, old stalker and followed me home. Because I’m pretty sure someone broke into my flat and you get three guesses as to who that might be and the first two don’t count,” he whispers furiously into his phone, keeping an eye on the door all the while. He keeps waiting for it to fly open, overdramatic western style, but so far everything has remained quiet. Perhaps the intruder has left already?

 

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Hale says, suddenly all business. “I’ll call in for some backup and in the meantime, I don’t want you to move an inch, certainly not towards that flat.”

 

Stiles makes some noncommital noises and then hangs up because Hale starts yelling so loudly that if anyone is still inside Stiles’ flat they are probably well aware of Stiles standing outside the door already. So Stiles stops dithering and slowly pushes open his door. He almost expects it to make a loud croaking sound - that’s what happens when the brave detective goes after the serial killer, doesn’t it? Or perhaps Stiles is more the dumb blonde that goes into the basement of the abandoned house in this scenario - but it just slides open silently, allowing Stiles to step into his hallway carefully, ears perked to catch any sound from further inside his flat. 

 

He has made it all the way to his living room when the bedroom door opens suddenly. Stiles might have screamed a little. And then once more for good measure when his dad steps through the door.

 

“Stiles,” he breathes. “It’s so good to see you.”

 

“It’s so - profoundly disturbing to see you,” Stiles returns, glaring at him, hoping he’s going to take the tremor in Stiles’ voice as a sign of anger rather than fear.

 

The hopeful smile on his dad’s face turns into a sad frown and Stiles mentally kicks himself for feeling bad about that. This isn’t his dad, not really. His dad died years ago; this man is more like … the mirror verse version of him, albeit without the evil moustache. Either way, he’s not someone Stiles needs to feel bad about wounding. 

 

“I’m sorry, Stiles, I truly am. I know this situation is anything but ideal and I really wish it weren’t necessary, but you must know I’ve done it all for you.” His eyes and tone are imploring Stiles to listen, but Stiles can just scoff in disbelief.

 

“You killed Parrish for me? What, so I’d have some work to do? How does this even make the slightest bit of sense?”

 

His dad furrows his brow and has the audacity to look like Stiles is the crazy one here, instead of the one who apparently faked his death and then reappeared after years to kill his former colleague.

 

“Killed Parrish? That wasn’t me; I wouldn’t do that! You know that, Stiles, you know  _ me _ !”

 

That’s the last straw for Stiles and it explodes out of him, all the pain, and confusion, and heartbreak. 

 

“Know you? I don’t know you! I haven’t known you in a long time and I’m not sure I ever knew you! I haven’t seen you in years, haven’t heard from you in just as long, in fact thought I’d never see you or hear you ever again, because I thought you were  _ dead _ and you tell me I should know you?”

 

His dad opens his mouth and that’s when Hale barrels through the door, weapon drawn and eyes worryingly wild, yelling: “Freeze!”

 

This time it works better than at the crime scene, though Stiles has a feeling that that’s because his dad is frozen anyways, shocked motionless by what Stiles had said. But that can’t have been news to him, could it? You don’t disappear, get declared dead, and then expect people to just roll with it when you reappear - on the scene of a murder nevertheless!

 

“But I wrote you letters -” Stiles’ dad starts saying before he’s interrupted by Hale yelling “Freeze!” again, even though nothing but his mouth had moved. This is the first thing his dad has had to say that Stiles is actually interested in, because what letters is he talking about? So of course this is also the time that he actually listens to Hale and falls silent. It seems to reassure Hale enough at least to dart a glance at Stiles, though his gun remains steadily pointed towards Stiles’ dad.

 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt in any way?” Hale asks him and he sounds so genuinely concerned that Stiles bites back his instinctual response, which would have been rather bitchy with the rush the adrenaline racing through his body, and answers him seriously instead.

 

“I’m fine; he hasn’t touched me; we were just talking. In fact, can you hold off arresting him for another moment?” he asks, explaining: “I’ve got a few more questions to ask him.”

 

Hale chances another look at Stiles, studying him intently for a moment before focussing back on Stiles’ dad. “Go ahead,” he allows, adding: “I’ve called in reinforcements already, so you’d better be quick, though, they should be here any minute.” It’s directed at Stiles as much as at his dad, a reminder for him not to try anything, because he won’t just have to face Hale.

 

“Alright then,” Stiles says, turning back towards his dad. “Letters?”

 

“I wrote you letters,” his dad says. “As often as I could, to keep in touch and to explain everything. Are you saying you didn’t get them? Not a single one?” He’s sounding increasingly desperate and his face falls when Stiles shakes his head.

 

“I’ve never gotten any letters,” he says, hope that there’s still some explanation that will make sense of all this warring with the more realistic side of him that’s saying that it is all a lie. “And what’s there to explain anyways? Mum died and you didn’t want to deal with me alone, so you left? I didn’t need a letter to know that. In a way it was kinder to just let me believe that you died, so thanks for that, I guess.”

 

His dad’s face has lost all colour and he makes an aborted step forwards as if to reach for him. It only makes Stiles jerk backwards, away from him, out of his reach. Hale steps forward threateningly instead, and Stiles’ dad raises his hands in surrender. 

 

“That’s not what happened, Stiles, and I’ll never forgive myself for allowing you to think that for even a second,” he says. He sighs and seems to shrink before Stiles’ eyes, shoulders sagging, face wan and drawn. “I never wanted to leave you, and if I’d known my letters weren’t getting to you, I would have come see you myself, all orders be damned.”

 

“Orders?” Stiles asks, almost despite himself. He doesn’t want to hear the excuses, but that little glimmer of hope inside his chest won’t just let him walk away.

 

“Yes, orders,” his dad repeats. “I didn’t leave you of my own volition, Stiles, I was sent on an undercover mission, to protect you and to find the murderers of your mum. You should have been told of this, should have been in the know. I wasn’t allowed to contact you other than the letters to not endanger you, but I’ve kept watch over you whenever I could. Parrish did too. He was with me, working on the same mission. He was going to tell me something that night, but I got his message too late and when I came to our meeting place it had been cordoned off by the FBI. I didn’t even know what happened until you told me just now that he’d been murdered. I had nothing to do with that, Stiles, I promise.”

 

Stiles hears what he’s saying, but all he sees is Parrish’s body, unrecognisable in death, his dad creeping around the crime scene, and finally, the bloody fingerprint on the murder weapon and the damning verdict from the DNA test - partial match found, probably parent-child relationship. And then he looks up and sees this man who is so familiar and at the same time a total stranger and says: “I don’t believe you.”

 

He turns his back quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid seeing his dad’s eyes slip shut in resignation and acceptance. He should be feeling relief, pride even, the murderer has been caught, the good guys win the fight again, but there’s a heavy weight pressing him down that makes it hard to breathe and Hale’s words feel as though they are directed at Stiles, passing judgement on Stiles’ decision:

 

“John Stilinski, you are under arrest on the suspicion of killing Jordan Parrish. Anything you say can and will be used against you…”

 

~*~

 

While Hale is still reading Stiles’ dad his rights, the reinforcements finally arrive. Thankfully Allison is amongst them and she only takes one look at Stiles before saying: “I’ll pack a bag for you; you’ll be staying with us.” 

 

Stiles feels as though he should put up a token protest but Allison’s tone allows no argument, and when he thinks about staying here tonight, alone, his stomach turns, so it’s really a moot point anyway. So he just nods and tries to form a smile for Allison’s sake. It mustn’t have done much to assuage her worries, though, because instead of going into his bedroom to pack the promised bag, she turns towards him instead and gives him a quick but strong hug.

 

“You’ll be alright,” she promises, and she sounds so sure of it that he almost believes her. Right now he feels mostly numb, though, watching the going ons in his flat as through thick glass, like in an aquarium. He keeps waiting for it to crack and all the water to come pouring out, but for now it holds. 

 

A hand carefully curling over his shoulder draws him out of his aquarium musings. When he turns around, Hale is standing in front of him, face grave. 

 

“How are you?” is the first thing he asks and Stiles really wishes he knew the answer to that question himself. He settles for a shrug and thankfully Hale accepts that as an answer. There’s an awkward moment where they both just stare at each other, neither saying anything, though Stiles can’t shake the feeling that Hale wants to say something, but doesn’t dare for some reason. Finally he speaks up again, but Stiles is sure that it isn’t what he was going to say initially.

 

“We’ll have to take him in now,” Hale says gently, pointing behind him, and Stiles only now realises that his dad is standing behind Hale, with his hands in cuffs already. Stiles almost misses Hale’s adding: “If there’s anything left you need to say or ask, now’s your last chance to do it off record.” It’s a clear breach of protocol and Stiles knows it, so he puts a hand on the one that’s still resting on his shoulder and squeezes it in gratitude. Hale obviously understands what Stiles isn’t saying, because he just nods, squeezes Stiles’ shoulder again and then steps aside, leaving Stiles standing face to face with his dad once more.

 

There’s so many questions Stiles still has and so many things he’d have to say, but his mind is drawing a blank on all of them and instead he says: “Letters? Was that really the best excuse you could come up with, dad? What, the mail just magically forgot to deliver your letters to me and only your letters?”

 

“I didn’t send them by mail,” his dad answers calmly, way too calm for someone about to be locked away for a very long time, if you ask Stiles. “I gave them to my superior.”

 

And before Stiles can ask any more questions, Allison returns with a bag for him, one of the other FBI agents steps forward to talk with Hale and Stiles knows what’s going on even before they say it out loud: time’s up. His dad is going to jail.

 

~*~

 

The numbness slowly fades, with hugs and hot chocolate from Scott and Allison, but sleep still doesn’t find Stiles that night. His mind is too busy going over the last few days again and again, the body how they found it at the crime scene, the first glimpse of his dad, the realisation that their victim is Parrish, Kate’s appearance on the scene, Hale’s shock at that, how overprotective he’d suddenly been, then seeing his dad again, the revelation that his dad is their murder suspect, finally talking to him again only to denounce him and watch him be taken away. It all lines up so neatly, too neatly, and Stiles keeps worrying at the cracks in the story, the once, twice, three times patterns and coincidences and chances. For some reason, it’s the last thing his dad said to him that Stiles just can’t get out of his mind. He claimed to have given the letters he supposedly wrote to Stiles to his superior. Which superior? The only superior Stiles ever knew was old Sheriff Delafrey and he retired years ago and definitely didn’t coordinate secret undercover missions from his room in the retirement home. 

 

It’s nagging at him so much that in the morning he asks Allison to try to find out who his dad’s superior might have been. He doesn’t even know what exactly he’d do with that information - speak with his dad’s superior perhaps? But to what end? Prove his innocence or his guilt? - and Allison obviously wonders the same, but she agrees to do her best nevertheless and tells him he’s welcome to stay at her’s and Scott’s for as long as he needs to. There’s a not so subtle dig at the shadows under his eyes in there, too, and Stiles takes the hint and calls in sick to work with less than a life threatening fever for the first time ever. 

 

The rest of the day Stiles spends napping while Scott and Allison are at work. Somehow, after the sleepless night, his body is now either too exhausted to ignore the siren call of a pillow, or he accidentally worked through what was bothering him with this case last night. If the latter is the case, though, then Stiles would very much like his body to share with the class. Either way, as soon as Scott and Allison leave for work, Stiles falls asleep and only rouses himself when the sound of the doorbell rudely awakens him from a very nice dream involving him being the little spoon to someone with lovely strong forearms. They sadly were the only thing Stiles could see of his dream cuddle partner, but they were definitely dreamy. 

 

The doorbell rings again and Stiles rolls himself out of bed with a groan. Behind the door is an unexpected visitor, Derek Hale, in regular jeans and a shirt instead of his customary work suits, and Stiles is not awake enough for this. Hale’s forearms are on display. They are definitely dreamy; in fact, Stiles might still be dreaming.

 

“I wanted to see how you were; Allison told me you called in sick,” Hale says, sounding hesitant and Stiles finally remembers his manners and waves him in.

 

It’s a surreal sight to see Hale sitting on Scott and Allison’s sagging couch, hands folded in his lap like a sunday schooler and studying Stiles intently. 

 

“How are you?” he asks again and Stiles shrugs, not sure how to answer that question. He’s not hurt; physically he’s fine, but there’s the knowledge that his dad is prison and that Stiles put him there. And then there’s the nagging feeling that he has missed something. Thankfully Stiles doesn’t have to try to put all of that into words because Hale starts talking again, apparently accepting Stiles’ shrug as his answer.

 

“I also wanted to tell you that your dad has officially been taken into custody. He’s well, or as well as the circumstances allow, and he’s got his own cell.”

 

“Good,” Stiles nods. “That’s good.”

 

Cops in jails can be a dangerous, volatile combination, and despite everything, Stiles is glad to hear that they’re looking after his dad in that regard at least. Hale clears his throat and Stiles realises that there’s something else he apparently wants to say. When he starts, his voice is hesitant, slow, as though he’s trying to put off saying whatever it is he needs to say for as long as possible.

 

“He’ll be charged with the murder of Jordan Parrish and there’s more rumours going around, too. I’m really sorry, but I wanted to tell you this myself, to make sure you didn’t hear it through the grapevine.” He swallows and breathes in deeply as if to steel himself. “According to the rumours, someone high up is also pushing for your father to be charged for the murder of your mother.”

 

“What?” Stiles exclaims. Of all the things he expected to hear, this wasn’t even remotely amongst them. “No, that’s bullshit, he wouldn’t have, no way.”

 

“Stiles,” Hale says, and he’s sounding far too gentle and understanding and Stiles really needs to throw or punch something. “I know there’s no evidence of that, so it’ll likely be thrown out anyway, but perhaps, if he did kill Parrish -”

 

“No,” Stiles repeats, insistently. “He might have killed Parrish; I don’t know the man he has become, and the evidence is clear, but I knew the man my dad was back then and he wouldn’t have killed my mum. Not in a million years. I found her, did you know that? I came home from school one day and I found her there, and no, he wouldn’t have done that, couldn’t that have done that, certainly not like that.”

 

That day is burnt into his memory forevermore, in all it’s technicolour clarity. It’s the one thing Stiles wishes he could forget and it’s the one thing that’s going to stay with him forever. The day he lost both parents, one in a pool of blood, the other disappearing without a word.

 

Hale’s hands curling around his wrists, fingers on Stiles’ pulse points draws him back to the present. 

 

“Hey, breathe,” Hale urges, sounding worried. “I believe you. And if you believe your father, I believe him, too. I just wanted you to know, so you’d be forewarned. As I said, there’s no evidence, so this probably isn’t going to get very far, anyways.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “These things happen; you know that just as much as I do. You’ve seen people get acquitted despite our evidence and other people convicted despite our evidence. They’ll make it sound like the two deaths belong together, had to have been committed by the same person and with the damning evidence for Parrish, suddenly my mum will have been my dad’s victim, too!”

 

Hale squeezes his hands and Stiles doesn’t even know when they started properly holding hands, across Scott and Allison’s coffee table with the burn marks back from when it was Scott and Stiles’ coffee table during their uni time when they thought burning incense was going to help with the sleep deprivation and the smell in the flat. Now those burns are badly covered up by a couple of doilies their abuela made and Stiles is holding hands with Derek Hale above them. 

 

“I won’t let them,” Hale promises and Stiles believes him, believes he’ll at least try. “Your father deserves to be charged for what he did do, but not for what others did to him and you.”

 

Stiles nods and holds onto Hale’s hands until he no longer feels like he’s going to drift away if he lets go.

 

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing one last time and Hale dips his head and squeezes back.

 

“Of course,” he replies, voice rough but his hands are gentle, thumbs brushing across Stiles’ palms almost like a caress, as he finally lets go of Stiles’ hands.

 

Hale leaves again soon after and Stiles goes back to bed, not willing to face the world any longer now that he’s on his own again. But despite the bad news he brought, Stiles is feeling better after Hale’s visit, less lost. 

 

This time he dreams not only of safe arms, but gentle hands.

 

~*~

 

It’s Allison that finally kickstarts it all.

 

After dinner she takes him aside while Scott does the dishes and says: “I found out who your father’s superior was.” Stiles expects her to give him a name immediately, but she falls silent instead, biting her lip as if suddenly second guessing her decision to tell him, and only continues when Stiles prompts her.

 

“It was my grandfather,” she finally says. “Gerard Argent. He was your father’s immediate superior before he disappeared. He’s still in the force, but has further risen in the ranks. The only one with more authority than him is Talia Hale, Derek’s mother. Do you want me to talk to him?”

 

The offer is genuine, but Stiles can also tell how reluctant she is to make it. He doesn’t know the details, but he does know that her parents had a falling out with the rest of the family when Allison was a child and that whatever happened was serious. Allison hasn’t even come to the Jeffersonian since Kate started turning up there. 

 

So Stiles shakes his head and says: “No, that’s alright. It probably doesn’t matter anyway, I just couldn’t remember and that bugged me. Thank you for your help, Allie.”

 

“Anytime,” she dimples at him and Stiles darts forward to give her a quick hug. “I’m really glad Scott stomped on your sandcastle,” he whispers into her ear and she laughs and pinches his side. “Don’t think I don’t remember that you pushed him,” she says and Stiles hugs her tighter. Scott’s his brother, but Allison is the closest he has to a sister. And as soon as Scott gets the courage to use that ring that’s hiding in Stiles’ underwear drawer, she’ll be his sister for real. Stiles is looking forward to it.

 

~*~

 

Sleep doesn’t come that night either.

 

Despite what he told Allison, Stiles can’t help thinking that there’s some significance to Gerard Argent being his dad’s superior. This is the second Argent that has suddenly appeared on the scene with this case - the third even if you count Allison, though Stiles is not inclined to do so. She doesn’t have anything to do with this, of that he is sure. Her aunt and grandfather however … it just seems like too much of a coincidence for both of them to be involved in this. 

 

Stiles has nothing to base his suspicions on of course, but he still can’t get all of the strange coincidences of this case out of his head. The discovery of Parrish’s body, how Kate suddenly appeared and inserted herself into the investigation, how she discovered the deadly wound, how conveniently placed the murder weapon was, with an extra convenient bloody fingerprint, then his dad’s ridiculous story of an undercover mission, but then the revelation that his superior used to be Kate’s father, Allison’s grandfather, Gerard Argent. There’s so many puzzle pieces and while they connect together well enough and make a sensible enough picture, Stiles can’t help thinking that he’s still missing one piece, the one piece that will change the picture entirely.

 

There’s only one thing he can do - go back to the bones. The bones don’t lie; if they still paint the same picture the rest of the evidence does after Stiles has examined them closely once more, then he’s apparently going to have to accept that his father is a murderer and that the Argents' presence is truly nothing but a coincidence.

 

Which is how he finds himself sneaking out of Scott and Allison’s flat in the middle of the night, leaving behind just a note that he’s gone to the Jeffersonian to check something and not to worry. With any luck, Stiles will be back before they wake up and discover it. Because if anything’s going to make Scott worry it’s a note telling him not to worry.

 

The Jeffersonian is deserted when he arrives, no one but the night guard there, who just nods and let’s Stiles go in without comment, used to him coming and going at strange times. When they are working on a case, Stiles tries to keep to somewhat regular hours, as to not inconvenience his colleagues too much, but sometimes he gets sudden flashes of inspiration which have to be followed up upon immediately. He also just likes the quiet and calm of the Jeffersonian at night. 

 

Other people might think it creepy, to be surrounded by nothing but silent bones in a deserted building in the middle of the night, but Stiles has never been bothered by that. Growing up the only child of a police officer and a teacher, both working long or odd hours, he had gotten used to silence and solitariness pretty early - moving in with the McCalls/Delgados had proven quite a culture shock at first. Not that Stiles was a quiet child, or even remotely quiet now, as Hale would quickly confirm, but he was used to creating his own noise, not shouting against it. It was a welcome change for the most part, but sometimes he still sought out the peace and quietness of being entirely alone. Strangely enough, when alone, he felt the absence of his parents a little less deeply; it was easier to imagine they were just at work and going to come home any minute that way. Of course he no longer believed that today, but he could still appreciate the echoing silence of being alone where many people were supposed to roam. 

 

A press of Stiles’ hands makes the lights in the bone room flare to life, bright and unforgiving. Parrish’s remains lie where he left them, apparently undisturbed, and Stiles breathes in deeply to centre himself before grabbing a pair of gloves and getting to work. 

 

He starts at the toes, working his way methodically first up each leg then the torso, followed by the arms and hands, examining the bones both by sight with the magnifying camera and by touch, following every curve and bend with his fingers to feel for anything his eyes might have missed, and finally studying the X-Rays closely to catch anything hidden deeper within the bone. 

 

There's nothing of significance he missed on the first examination though, so as the sky outside turns pink, Stiles straightens under the artificial light illuminating the bones in front of him and turns to the last piece of evidence that he hasn't examined yet - the cranium.

 

There's the blunt force head trauma that they've already identified as the cause of death, and even with Stiles examining every inch of the rest of the skull, he can't find anything else that could realistically be the cause of death. Disappointment sinks icy cold into his belly and the threat of failure looms over him. Perhaps it all was wishful thinking after all, born of the desperate hope that it was all a big misunderstanding and that his dad isn't a murderer. 

 

Faintly the sound of voices reaches his ears, signalling that the Jeffersonian is waking up and that the night is almost gone and with it Stiles’ last chance to exonerate his dad. So Stiles cracks his neck and pumps himself up one last time. There's only the blunt force trauma left now and Stiles is determined to examine it with an open mind this time, without the poisonous whispering of Kate in his ear this tone. He suddenly has an image of Kate as a tiny devil on his shoulder with his dad the little angel on the other shoulder. Which is more than a little ironic given the current situation they are in and makes him laugh more than a little hysterical. 

 

Perhaps this is what's wrong with him - he still thinks of his dad as the angel, despite everything, and that makes Kate the devil of course. One last examination, and if that doesn't yield any new results, then he'll stop looking and accept that his dad is no angel, Stiles resolves. 

 

But there's something wrong with the blunt force trauma. Oh, it's a perfectly deadly blunt force trauma, no doubt about that, a sizable dent in the bone, plenty of fractures big and small. 

 

Only some of the fractures, tiny hairline fractures barely visible beneath the bigger ones don't go in the right direction. Stiles increases the magnification, but the facts remain the same - those fractures were not caused by the same impact that caused the blunt force trauma. 

 

Setting the skull down very carefully, Stiles first grabs the camera to document his findings and then gets out his phone with suddenly shaking fingers. 

 

“Pick up, pick up,” he whispers urgently and after three rings a voice rough with sleep answers him: “What the hell, Stilinski?”

 

“You've got to come to the Jeffersonian,” Stiles rushes to say. “I found new evidence; the pipe with my dad's blood on it didn't kill Parrish. I think my dad got framed - remember him mentioning his superior? That was Gerard Argent, don't you think it's suspicious that his daughter turned up here right as we opened this case? I think they might have had something to do with Parrish’s death!”

 

“Well done, well done, looks like you're more than a pretty face after all,” Kate says and Stiles whirls around. She looks like she always has, smart dress, hair up in her customary bun, but in her hand she holds a gun and her eyes are saying that she's looking forward to using it. 

 

“Kate,” Stiles says slowly, trying to gain time, though for what he doesn't know. But he's still lifting his arms into the air, one hand still holding his phone when Kate shrugs, “It really is a pity,” and fires. 

 

Stiles flinches, hearing a tinny “Stiles!” coming out of his own, and then he only has time to wonder why nothing hurts when something hits his head and everything turns black. 

 

~*~

 

When Stiles comes to, he is tied securely to the sturdy examination table and Kate has her back turned to him. Unfortunately his restraints don't budge when he tries to struggle as quietly as possible, which is for naught as Kate says without turning around: “Oh, stop wriggling like a fish out of water already, I'm sure loverboy is going to be here soon.”

 

She tilts her head as if listening for something or someone and the light glints off the large metal hair pin holding up her bun and Stiles can't stifle a gasp. 

 

Kate finally turns around to face him and her grin reminds him of the monsters in horror films with far too many teeth. “Figured it out, didn't you? Took you long enough,” she mocks and Stiles has to swallow down some bile. If this is how Parrish died, then he didn't die a nice, quick and painless death. A piece of metal through the ear into the brain is a gruesome way to die and a merciless way to kill. 

 

Then his brain replays what Kate said earlier and he blurts out: “What? What loverboy are you talking about?”

 

“Why, Derek Hale of course, who else?” Kate returns and starts rhapsodizing: “He’s oh so dreamy, isn’t he? All pretty and strong, very lickable, don’t you think? Perhaps I’ll do that first - lick him  _ all over _ .”

 

She winks at him and Stiles starts feeling nauseous again.

 

“He’ll come with the whole strength of the FBI behind him and the only thing you’ll be able to lick when he’s done with you is his feet,” he declares with more bravado than he actually feels. But Kate just laughs.

 

“Oh no, he’s going to come alone, I made sure of that. Wouldn’t want to have the wrong witnesses, would we?”

 

“Why would he come alone? He knows you are armed - he heard you shoot at me! I’m glad you missed by the way - he wouldn’t just run in blind and alone!” Stiles objects. 

 

“First of all, I didn’t miss, if I’d wanted to shoot you, you’d know it,” Kate bites out and gestures to something somewhere behind Stiles. It’s the first time he’s seen her the slightest bit ruffled by something he said, and while it’s probably very stupid to antagonise the crazy person who holds you hostage, it fills Stiles with a sick sort of satisfaction. 

 

Although he’s reluctant to turn his back on Kate, he nevertheless twists around in his restraints to catch a glimpse at whatever she was gesturing at. One of the big lights lies smashed on the floor where Stiles stood when Kate surprised him. Apparently she shot it down and it hit him and knocked him out. His head throbs at that moment, as if agreeing with him. Stiles just wonders how long he was out for - long enough for Kate to move and secure him and apparently somehow convince Hale to come alone. He doesn’t have to wait long for that explanation as Kate continues:

 

“Second, Hale is going to come alone because he knows that otherwise I’m going to shoot you for real this time.”

 

“But why would that make him come alone? And how did you even talk to him?” Stiles asks again and Kate actually rolls her eyes at him.

 

“He was still on the phone,” she says and pulls Stiles’ phone out of her pocket. “I was even able to send him a picture of you; he became cooperative real quick after that!”

 

“But why?” Stiles repeats and he’s starting to feel like a broken record, but he just can’t make his mind wrap around it. There’s clear protocols for hostage situations in the FBI, as there are for the police force and it just doesn’t make sense that Kate would believe Hale would ignore those to come and face her alone instead.

 

“Because I threatened you,” Kate replies. “Love is a wondrous weapon, is it not? Oh you are going to make the best Juliet,” she sighs.

 

Stiles decides to ignore the thing about Hale supposedly being in love with him for the sake of his sanity and focuses on the last bit instead.

 

“So who’s going to be my Romeo? Volunteering for the role of the dead guy, Kate?” he needles, but this time she remains unruffled.

 

“Why, Derek of course!” she returns. “It’s the perfect way to get rid of you both in one strike. You went mad with grief over your father’s deeds, killed Hale because he arrested your father and then killed yourself afterwards. Such a tragedy really.”

 

She sighs exaggeratedly and Stiles stares at her in disbelief.

 

“You won’t get away with that,” he says. “There’s security cameras all over this building that will record what actually happened; someone’s going to hear the shots; you’ll never be able to escape the building quick enough, and even if you do, they’ll hunt you down. You’ve lost.”

 

But Kate just smirks and leans forward to conspiratorially whisper: “Shouldn’t have someone heard the first shot already?”

 

Stiles thinks back to the voices he heard and remembers the bangs and clangs that he thought were doors - but the Jeffersonian doesn’t have any doors which could slam shut, at least not down here - and blanches.

 

“But what about the security cameras? They’ll have caught you on tape already!” he insists desperately. 

 

Kate shrugs. “You must have turned them off - there’s no footage after you entered the building; too bad really, but it’ll be pretty clear what happened anyways, so they won’t need them.”

 

“You won’t get away with this,” Stiles maintains, though it’s starting to feel like a rather empty threat. 

 

“Oh, I really think I will,” Kate smiles and then suddenly straightens. “But enough chit chat, looks like it’s time for the main entertainment to begin.” She produces a roll of tape from Stiles doesn’t know where and tapes his mouth shut with it before he even realises what’s happening. Then she pats Stiles’ head as though he’s a trained dog and steps back into the shadows in the corner behind the door. Stiles tries to calm himself down by reminding himself that sweeping a room upon entering it is like FBI 101, so there’s no way Hale is going to miss her, if he does end up coming alone.

 

Not that he’s going to come alone; Stiles doesn’t know what Kate was on about with the loverboy thing.

 

Approximately thirty seconds after that, Hale appears in the doorway, eyes wild, hair a mess, and clothes thrown on haphazardly. He doesn’t spare the rest of the room even the slightest glance, but heads straight for Stiles instead, falling to his knees in front of him and cupping Stiles’ face gently in his hands. And Stiles thinks: “Oh.”

 

“Where are you hurt? Did she shoot you?” Hale asks urgently, fingers of one hand carefully carding through Stiles’ hair in more of a caress. When he touches the place where the lamp hit Stiles’ head, Stiles hisses and Hale quickly draws his hand back, mumbling apologies. With his other hand he’s patting down Stiles as if looking for more wounds, but behind Stiles’ back he slips a small knife into Stiles’ bound hands. Stiles fumbles and almost drops it out of surprise, suddenly perversely glad for the tape that muffles his surprised gasp. 

 

Hale seems to interpret it differently because he hurriedly says: “Oh right, sorry, sorry,” and then leans forward and finally pulls off the tape, whispering into Stiles’ ear at the same time: “Your dad is safe; Allison is with him right now. And my mum has already arrested Gerard Argent.”

 

Stiles sucks in a breath. He hadn’t even realised that his dad might be in danger - to his excuse, he hasn’t yet gotten used to the fact again that he even still has a dad - but he’s glad he’s safe nevertheless. Now that he can finally talk again, he opens his mouth to warn Hale that Kate is still in the room, but Kate beats him to it.

 

“Now this is all cute and heartwarming,” she mocks, stepping into the light, and Hale whirls around, crouching protectively in front of Stiles who freezes for a moment before realising that this is his chance to use the knife he has been given to free himself. What he’s going to do then, he doesn’t know yet, but surely he’ll be of more use freed than tied up.

 

“Lower your gun, ma’am,” Hale says and Kate scoffs, and to be quite honest, Stiles is tempted to copy her. Now is really not the time for pleasantries. 

 

“No need to be so formal, Derek, it’s just us here after all. Now, I’ve already told Stiles my plan, so you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t want to repeat myself.” 

 

She raises her gun and Stiles saws harder at his restraints. Then everything seems to happen all at once. Stiles’ restraints fall off, the knife dropping along with them, Hale jumps up and Kate trains her gun on him and Stiles hectically grapples for anything to throw at Kate, finally reaching above his head and grabbing one of the bones from the table and throwing it with all his might at Kate.

 

He grabbed one of the tibia by chance, and while the impact is not heavy enough to knock her out, the hit disorients her enough to give Hale the chance to tackle her down. In the following grapple, a gun goes off and Stiles sees Hale jerk as if in slow motion and he doesn’t even realise he has opened his mouth until his yell echoes through the too empty Jeffersonian.

 

“No! Derek!”

 

He sees Kate’s hand reaching for her gun, which must have slipped out of her grip, and throws himself forward to get at it before her. His hands are sweaty and shaky, but he still manages to grab it, gripping it tightly, immediately pointing it at Kate, who stills. Behind her, Derek isn’t moving and Stiles has to remind himself to keep breathing.

 

“Go on, shoot me,” Kate goads him. “Do it, just like your daddy, the murderer.”

 

“My dad is no murderer,” Stiles says firmly and whacks her around the head with the hilt of the gun, knocking her out properly this time. Then he removes the magazine and takes out the remaining bullet from the chamber and kicks magazine and gun in two different corners of the room.

 

Finally, he allows himself to fall to his knees next to Derek, carefully turning him over so he can check his breathing and his pulse. His eyes are closed but Stiles is relieved to see that he’s still breathing at least.

 

“Derek, hey, come on, wake up. Where did she hit you? Is someone coming already or do I need to call for help? What the hell were you thinking anyways, coming alone!” He knows he’s rambling, but it’s hard to stop when Derek is still so silent and unmoving beneath him. His hands are roaming Derek’s body restlessly, looking for the gunshot wound, where to put pressure, but he can’t find any blood.

 

Suddenly, a hand wraps around his, stilling them and when Stiles’ eyes snap up to his face, Derek’s eyes are fluttering open.

 

“You called me Derek,” he croaks and Stiles feels ridiculously close to crying.

 

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” he attempts to snark back, but it comes out rather watery.

 

“Yes, but you don’t use it,” Derek says and it almost looks like he’s pouting and that sight is apparently enough to fry the last of Stiles’ remaining brain cells because his very mature reply is: “Do too.”

 

“But not often enough,” Derek complains and he really is pouting now. 

 

“I will from now on,” Stiles promises helplessly before finally remembering that they are dealing with a bigger crisis than names here. “You got shot! We need to put pressure on the wound and to call for help!”

 

He starts to withdraw his hand from Derek’s grip to start patting him down again, but Derek just grips his hand more tightly and squeezes it for good measure.

 

“Relax, will you? The bullet didn’t go through.” He starts sitting up with a groan and Stiles hurries to help him up. Together they manage to get him upright and Derek rips his shirt open in a move that is really too Magic Mike for the current situation if you ask Stiles. He might have looked like he rolled out of bed, threw on the first clothes he could find on the floor and then came straight here, but underneath his ripped open shirt a bulletproof vest is revealed with one bullet stuck in the material, a little under the ribs on the left side of his torso. 

 

“It’s going to leave one hell of a bruise and the impact knocked me out for a moment there, but I’ll be fine, Stiles. I was absolutely safe the whole time.”

 

“Absolutely safe?” Stiles demands, and apparently his adrenaline has turned to anger as an outlet. “What if she’d shot you in the foot? Or  _ in the head _ ? Where’s your backup? How could you be so stupid to turn up here alone?!”

 

“Because he’s an idiot,” a new voice says from the doorway and Stiles tenses up. But then Derek gasps “Mum?” and the woman in full tactical gear smiles before giving the all clear to whoever’s on the other side of her walkie-talkie. 

 

Unlike her son, she properly scans the room before walking in and then secures Kate first before kneeling down on the other side of Derek, checking him over with a quick glance and a gentle hand. Satisfied that he’s not badly hurt, she then smacks the back of his head gently, making Derek squawk in protest, and Stiles already loves her.

 

“If I ever hear about you going into such a situation alone again, then I’ll pull you out of the FBI and post you to the most remote island I can find with just sheep for company,” she threatens and then turns toward Stiles with a smile. “You must be Stiles! I’m Talia and it’s such a pleasure to meet you, even if the circumstances are less than ideal. Now that the situation is under control, the paramedics should be here any moment, and they’ll look after you and my idiot son.”

 

As if her words had summoned them, a swarm of paramedics suddenly fills the room with people and stretchers and before he knows what’s happening, Stiles find himself in an ambulance outside the Jeffersonian, with only a paramedic silently working on disinfecting his head wound for company. Apparently that’s when his body finally decides that the crisis is over now and between one stinging touch of peroxide and the next, the world becomes black again for the second time in one day.

 

~*~

 

That’s where Stiles’ detailed knowledge of the case stops.

 

Apparently, being kidnapped by one of the accused suspects and being the son of the man wrongfully framed by said suspects means one isn’t impartial enough to be part of the investigation anymore. At least Allison gets kicked out, too, and with her Derek, though Stiles isn’t entirely sure if he actually got taken off the case or if he refused to work without Allison (and Stiles). Stiles would have thrown a bigger temper tantrum if the investigation hadn’t been picked up by Lydia Martin and her partner. As much as Stiles dislikes Jackson Whittemore, he has to admit he does good work and Lydia is a force to be reckoned with, and if they can’t close their case themselves, then Lydia and Jackson are definitely the best to do so. 

 

Despite his protest, Stiles ends up staying overnight at the hospital. He’s got a sizable bump at the back of his head and slightly bruised knees from throwing himself around the room so much, but otherwise he’s fine, but apparently that verdict isn’t enough for his doctors, who want to keep him under observation for 24 hours. At least Melissa works her magic and becomes his nurse despite technically not even being on call. She reacts remarkably like Talia Hale had - with a hug and then a swat on his thigh, followed by another hug. Stiles buries his face in her shoulder and finally let’s the tears come that have been threatening to fall for a while now. 

 

Melissa just holds him silently and lets him cry himself out, before pulling back to look into his eyes and say: “I know you’ve got your dad back now, and I couldn’t be happier for you, both of you, but you know you’ll still be my son, too,  _ conejito _ , forever.” She doesn’t pose it as a question, but Stiles nods nevertheless, throat tight. She’d started calling him her little rabbit shortly after taking him in following his mum’s death and his dad’s disappearance, because he’d been running circles around Scott and running his mouth even quicker, and it had become a thing just for the two of them. There’s no way Stiles can put all of his love and appreciation for this woman into words, so he just leans in and hugs her tightly once more. Melissa hugs him back and then lets him go after pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

 

“Now you be nice to your doctors and maybe I’ll bring you a present later,” she says with a wink before leaving his room again.

 

Apparently Melissa McCall’s idea of a present is Derek Hale in a bow. Seriously.

 

Derek is wearing the customary hospital robe backwards to allow easy access to the bandages on his chest and to keep everything interesting below that neatly hidden, someone has tied off the gown with a great, big bow across his crotch. The glare Derek throws his way when Stiles badly stifles a snort is deadly, but he still asks to be rolled a little closer to Stiles’ bed, so Stiles doesn’t think he’s too mad. As soon as the nurse who brought Derek has left the room, Stiles stretches out his hand towards Derek, who takes it after only a moment’s hesitation, which Stiles takes as a good sign.

 

“Thank you for coming for me,” he says earnestly, but then can’t help adding: “even though I do still hold that it was an absolutely idiotic thing to do. I still appreciate it, though.”

 

“You could have just stopped after the thank you,” Derek grumbles, but he doesn’t let go of Stiles’ hand until Stiles has fallen asleep.

 

~*~

 

With both his flat and his workspace now a crime scene, Stiles finds himself at a bit of a loss upon his release from the hospital. When he considers out loud whether he should go for a hotel or Allison and Scott’s saggy couch, Derek offers up his guest room. It’s not a hard choice to make.

 

Living with Derek is surprisingly comfortable. They figure out a bathroom rhythm pretty quickly; Derek gets the shower in the morning after his run, Stiles at night so he’s nice and toasty warm before going to bed. They take turns cooking and cleaning up, though at least half of the time they end up doing both together, hip checking each other out of the way to get at the cutlery drawer, arguing over the culinary value of green asparagus and agreeing on the uselessness of artichokes. It’s all - terribly domestic. Terribly so because Stiles never wants to leave.

 

The investigation is slow going and details about it only reach Stiles’ ears in small drips and drops - apparently Gerard Argent was deeply involved in some mafia-style things, from corruption to money laundering to possibly even human trafficking, whatever he could profit from financially. Kate was his right hand, the one responsible for getting her hands dirty, so that Gerard wouldn’t have to.

 

Stiles’ dad had been trying to identify everyone involved in those criminal activities even before he went undercover. Apparently he’d gotten too close to the truth and Stiles’ mum had to die as a result of that. Going undercover then cut him off from so many resources and connections that it took him years to suspect his immediate superior. It’s both the most unexpected and thus perfect place to occupy - heading the investigation that you are the target of. When Stiles’ dad realised that all of his findings were leading nowhere, he started informing both Gerard and secretly also Talia Hale of his actions. 

 

That seems to have kicked off everything else. Kate killed Parrish in retaliation - her hairpin matched the fractures Stiles discovered perfectly - then tried to frame Stiles’ dad for the murder in an attempt to kill two birds with one stone. 

 

Stiles’ dad has since been exonerated and they’ve slowly, tentatively been reconnecting. It’s painfully awkward at times and Stiles doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to fully forgive his dad for abandoning him, and they’ll probably never be as close again as they used to be, but they are both desperate to at least try. 

 

In comparison, things with Derek are going far smoother.

 

With both of them on medical leave and both having been firmly forbidden from showing their faces anywhere near work until they were fully healed, and ideally only after the investigation is finished, they have found themselves with a lot of free time at hand suddenly.

 

So they start going out for dinner together, then to dinner and a movie, that new art exhibition that Derek has been meaning to visit, the concert Stiles was going to force Scott to but then it turns out, Derek actually knows and likes the band, and somehow, Stiles accidentally starts dating Derek Hale. There’s just a sad lack of kisses involved.

 

Stiles isn’t confident to demand kisses rightout, but he’s well capable of leaving some hints - Hershey’s Kisses next to Derek’s coffee in the morning, ordering a Coconut Kiss and a Russian Kiss and finally a Kiss on the Lips the next time they are out together (though that one sort of backfires - Derek has to carry Stiles the last few steps up to the flat) and as a last resort sighing wistfully whenever two characters kiss on screen when they watch something together. 

 

He’s just about ready to give up on Derek ever catching a hint, when Derek finally makes a move. They’ve just come back from a movie, having had dinner before together, as cliched a date as it’s going to get, and Stiles is expecting Derek to grab two beers, so they can settle on the couch together to discuss the film (because they are hopeless non-dating idiots who go on cliched dates often enough to have a post-date ritual), but Derek instead leads him to the door of the guest room where Stiles has been sleeping.

 

“A kiss at the door is customary, isn’t it?” Derek asks, probably trying to appear suave, but Stiles can see that the tips of his ears have flushed pink and that he’s biting his lip nervously. It all just makes Stiles want to kiss him even more.

 

“As long as you come inside afterwards…” 

 

Stiles winks and is delighted to see Derek’s blush spread across his cheekbones, too. It was a bit of a stoney road here - Stiles could have done without getting kidnapped for example - but as Derek’s mouth touches his softly, he thinks that he’d take that road again any time if only it leads him here. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought, so please leave a comment below or come talk to me on [tumblr](http://thedaughterofkings.tumblr.com/)!


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